


Muon

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: AU, Happy Ending, Multi, Post 4:13, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>REGARDING SPOILERS:  I tend to use trailers as a jumping point for spinning a fic (and if you saw the threesome tag, then you know I'm spinning like a mad-thing).  </p><p>The story is in no way accurate, automatically come with the Alternate Universe Disclaimer, and contains no spoilers other than what was seen in the thirty-second trailer at the end of 4:13.  The question hanging over every one head's is <em>not<em> answered, Nina is very much a wtf character for me and the rest of fandom, but I do use the plot-line to push the story into a 'start' mode.  That said, I fully expect canon to go in the opposite direction.</em></em></p><p>Sincere thanks to kernezelda for beta-duties.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Muon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monanotlisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monanotlisa/gifts).



> REGARDING SPOILERS: I tend to use trailers as a jumping point for spinning a fic (and if you saw the threesome tag, then you know I'm spinning like a mad-thing). 
> 
> The story is in no way accurate, automatically come with the Alternate Universe Disclaimer, and contains no spoilers other than what was seen in the thirty-second trailer at the end of 4:13. The question hanging over every one head's is _not _answered, Nina is very much a wtf character for me and the rest of fandom, but I do use the plot-line to push the story into a 'start' mode. That said, I fully expect canon to go in the opposite direction.__
> 
> Sincere thanks to kernezelda for beta-duties.

Olivia doesn’t need anyone to rescue her.

It’s her, Nina and Jones - who talks through an intercom, calls her _My girl_ with a crooked smile, a paternal edge to his voice. There’s a wheeze in Jones’ voice, a judder in his limbs and when he speaks about the inevitability of dying, Olivia believes him.

 She has memories. More than she knows what to do with.

If Jones is here to activate the cortexiphan, the _potential_ bound to her brain, it stands to reason the mission is a suicide. Olivia’s ‘potential’ has every intention of murdering him.

He looks pained while Nina screams, as if torturing the older woman is something he would prefer not to do. Jones thought Nina was the closest – the one Olivia held dearest – and he’s right and utterly wrong. Nina’s agony tears through her. Though everything is magnified, _awful,_ there’s a cornerstone in Olivia heart that’s relieved Jones didn’t know better. That he didn’t think to grab Peter in the gas station as well.

Nina’s scream ratchets, pierces through the walls, and something unfurls in Olivia’s ribcage. It sparks down deep, explodes upward. She doesn’t need anyone to rescue her.

But Olivia does need someone who isn’t afraid to touch, who will hold all of her cindered pieces, say _I’m not scared,_ and mean it _._ He’s not, Peter never has been, and Olivia finds herself (hours, minutes, days later), with her head tucked under his chin, amongst the soot and blackened walls.

Peter’s voice is a low rumble. “Hush. It wasn’t her, Olivia, it wasn’t Nina, she was never in the cell with you.” She shivers, her fingers catching in his pea coat.  Beneath the ash, the sweet-sick smell of burning flesh, Olivia smells desperation, her own, Peter’s too.

He’s solid beneath her touch, keeping Olivia steady until she finds her own feet. When her skin fits her body, when the world goes from amber, blasted heat to cooler hues, she turns to look at the scene of devastation.

The building’s flattened. Spot-fires burn blue/green in unlikely places. Olivia turns a slow circle and finds Lincoln.

He stands at a respectable distance, giving them room. There’s soot on one cheekbone, his face solemn. Lincoln inclines his head once, a discernible _Okay?_ Olivia straightens. She can hear the distant wailing of approaching sirens. Okay, she questions, and realizes she doesn’t have a baseline to compare it too. But Peter and Lincoln are here, among the ruins, and Lee doesn’t drop her gaze. _You should be running_ , Olivia can’t help think.

Lincoln quirks an eyebrow, his face tight, unhappy; belatedly, Olivia remembers to nod. Lincoln watches her for a moment longer, making sure, then breathes out.

He picks his way through the rubble, heading toward the EMTs as their vehicle pulls into the lot, one hand upraised with his ID on display.

 

***

 

Four nights later, Lincoln looks comically surprised when Olivia takes a seat opposite at the All Night Owl.

“Hey, Firestarter,” he quips, and closes the paperwork.

It’s quarter to three in the morning, the light sallow with a broken bulb above their booth, the heart motif cast in shadow. Olivia remembers walking past the window and seeing him for the first time. The rush of surprise, the determination that set her shoulders straight, which turned her feet and made her step inside. Lincoln was still relatively new **;** and in truth **,** Olivia had more experience with his double. Lincoln’s doppelganger wasn’t subtle, dogging Olivia’s twin, his motions cut through with yearning. Olivia had seen it. Couldn’t help see it, thought quietly AltLiv had to be an idiot to miss it.

She should have known better.

Of all people, Olivia knew a doppelganger didn’t mean exactly the same. Maybe it was presumptuous, arrogant, but the first time she asked _this_ Lincoln out, Olivia fully expected him to say yes, to not even hesitate. After all, she had evidence elsewhere Lincoln was interested.

 _No. I have other plans, sorry,_ wasn’t in the script.

His refusal, absently said, almost made her trip, and the memory is fuelled with warmth now, with embarrassed chagrin, with that toe-tingling moment of startled surprise. _Have drinks with me?_ led to _Grab a bite to eat?_ led to an internal monologue, because **_Lincoln's not meant to play hard to get_** **,** and Olivia’s never had to chase a man in her life. (Except that’s not true, she chased Peter across universes).

It was a point of pride, then, to try to get Lincoln to notice, and Olivia was.  Noticing **,** that is.  The wiry strength, the narrow hips; how he would smile, or edge away from Walter. The cut of his suit.

“I thought we had a standing date,” Olivia opens in return, and catches the waitress **’** s eye with a smile.

Lincoln blinks. “Uh...we do?” He takes his glasses off and wets his lips nervously.

She can remember the feel of his shoulders, how his tongue would drag across her vulva, catch her by the hood and flick. The pure taste of herself shared, pushed into her mouth when he crept up the bed and kissed her. Olivia presses both palms against the tabletop and flattens them. She settles herself more firmly in the seat. “Peter suggested I should come.”

He looks like a deer caught in headlights. “That’s…very Zen of him.”

Her mouth curves, because Peter wouldn’t know Zen if it shot an arrow at his heart. He thinks too much to be meditative. Olivia tilts her head, one hand stretching across the tabletop, and adds quietly. “He shared consciousness with an Observer, Lincoln.”

It takes him a moment to parse the sentence then his face falls. “Oh…oh, he knows.”

“All manner of variations,” Olivia agrees.

The trepidation on Lincoln’s face is enough to make her angry, as if what they shared, never tried to hide, has somehow lost significance. It hasn’t. She wants to put her palms to Lincoln’s torso and press.

Olivia doesn’t regret it. She harbors no guilt, feels no remorse, the feelings she has for Lincoln undiminished. Blameless isn’t a word she associates with adults, but it has its place, nestled between forgotten realms and desire.

Lincoln swallows. He says with false interest. “And all those possibilities haven’t driven Bishop insane?”

“Peter tells me he’s internalizing like a champion.” She can’t keep the softness from her voice, the warm curl of want. “He’s very good at it. He’s been doing it since he was seven.”

Lincoln looks away, confused. “If Peter and I were in opposite shoes **,** I’m not sure I could send you to a competitor.” He turns the cup over in his hands, trying for rueful and falling short. “If that’s what I am, a competitor, I mean?”

“You’re not a competitor, but not for the reasons you think.” Olivia’s not a prize. She settles for the truth, catches his hand in her own. “I miss you, too.”

Peter stayed behind to be with Walter, to give Olivia time to approach Lincoln on her own terms. The relationship with his father reminds her of their first year together. When Walter and his son acted perfectly fine one week – then were at each other’s throats the next. At present, it’s a good week, and Peter’s taking advantage of it.

 

_“He loves you,” Peter had whispered unexpectedly one night. “You two end up together,” he groaned feverishly on another. On the third night, Peter was hard, hard beneath the sheets without anyone touching him. He twisted the fabric between his fists and arched, came over his own chest in ropey spurts. Olivia had rubbed her fingers through the mess, drew sticky patterns against his skin, and whispered. “Which timeline was that?”_

_“God, you don’t want to know,” Peter had panted._

_She does, Olivia’s always had an insatiable curiosity. “Try me.”_

_  
_

“You miss me?” Lincoln repeats now, looking up as if checking for the truth behind her words.

“Very much.” Their relationship was only burgeoning when the entire situation changed. She watches his face quietly: innate surprise, pleasure, a kernel of self-doubt.

“Have you told Peter that?” he asks sarcastically.

Olivia spent a very pleasant night teasing out all the variables Peter had inadvertently been exposed to. Spent long hours relearning him. Skin wet, her stomach alight, each orgasm driving her onward, pushing the boundaries. Taking Peter with her each step of the way, their fingers threaded together. Cameron Jones was right, it _was_ Olivia who brought Peter back, and David Robert Jones didn’t need to activate the cortexiphan in her blood. It’s been humming through her veins all along.

“Yes.”

Lincoln startles noticeably. Olivia had kissed him for the first time in this booth, body tilting forward over the table to reach. He had tasted like coffee and lemon tart, like sleeplessness and buried over worry. “You’re going to be fine,” she had teased, and dragged him home to bed.

Lincoln had pulled her panties aside when she was standing at the end of the mattress, one palm on her stomach. His shoulders had knocked her off balance until she grabbed his hair. Lincoln hooked two fingers in her, one in her vagina, the other near her clit, and stretched her long. Exposing everything. He ran his tongue from tail to tip, until Olivia was drenched, shaking with it, her entire body a drawn out pulse. She clenched like a clamshell when he entered, over-sensitized, her orgasm no longer sharp bursts but drawn-out, a smothering wave that had rolled on and on.

“God,” he had whispered, “you’re beautiful.” Lincoln had covered her completely: his forearms to either side of her neck, legs on the outer, sweaty forehead resting on her own. His kisses were soft, even as each drive shoved her further up the mattress.

“You’re jealous,” she had teased, because Olivia’s built for this, shares it in common with every woman on earth, the ability to keep going, spiraling from one sexual peak to another.

“The entire male race is,” he had gasped, and laughed. He came with a broken off sound, with his limbs turning heavy, falling to the side, his body curling in close. Olivia had watched him until the light crept under the curtains.

 

She stands up, one hand outstretched, a promise in her voice. “You’d be surprised what Peter knows. Lincoln, come with me.”

There’s no fight in his body language, the hesitation a residual ghost. “What makes you think I’m interested?” he asks, sounding very interested indeed.

There’s a thousand and one ways Olivia could answer. She’s seen the way Lincoln looks at Peter. She’s felt the way he touches her. She's seen the speculation in his eyes, and she knows Lincoln balances them out in some inexplicable way, diverts them and changes the possibilities. “You wouldn’t be police if you weren’t curious,” she hedges.

“FBI,” he corrects, automatically.

“Come and investigate with me.”

His mouth twitches into a helpless smile. Lincoln takes her by the hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles, and follows Olivia as she tugs him out the door.


End file.
